


The Halloween Costume

by gothyringwald



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Costumes, Established Relationship, Fluff, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: 'It's always been my favourite holiday. Trick-or-treating in costumes, bobbing for apples, staying up late for my mother's parties.' Napoleon trails off, a small smile on his face. 'It's fun.'


  There is something appealing in Napoleon's happy recollection of his boyhood memories that makes Illya rethink his position. 'And if I wear costume...it would make you happy?'





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's the most wonderful time of the year! Happy Halloween, everyone. 
> 
> Not my best writing but I wanted to post something for my favourite holiday!
> 
> Un-beta'd.

'What's this?' Illya frowns at the paper in his hands.

'It's an invitation, Mr Kuryakin.' A smirk tugs at the corner of Mr Waverly's mouth.

'To a Halloween party.' Gaby is beaming, slumped back in a chair, swivelling from side to side. 'I've never been to a Halloween party,' she adds, almost wistful.

'I love Halloween.' Napoleon grins, wide and beautiful, eyes glinting. 

For a moment Illya finds himself caught in Napoleon's smile, forgetting everything else, until the feel of paper in his hands brings his attention back to the invitation. 

'And people wear costumes?' Illya asks, baffled by the bizarre American tradition.

'Of course, Mr Kuryakin,' says Waverly, 'that's half the fun.'

*

'Illya, are you listening?' Gaby asks, exasperated.

Illya looks up from where he's been staring at his latest mission report. 'Yes?' He ventures.

Gaby snorts and he looks to Napoleon for help, but just gets a smirk, instead.

'We're talking about what costumes to wear!'

'Costumes?'

'To Mr Waverly's party,' Gaby says, practically bouncing.

Illya suppresses a groan. 'Oh.'

'Napoleon has an idea, but won't tell me what it is.' Napoleon winks and Gaby pokes her tongue out at him. 'What about you?'

'I'm not sure,' Illya says, hesitantly – he would rather not go to the party at all, but knows he will for Napoleon and Gaby. 'Would it be rude to not wear one?'

'Aww, come on, Peril. Costumes are the best part of Halloween!' 

Illya shrugs. 'Is silly capitalist nonsense.' 

Gaby rolls her eyes and says 'well, we live in a silly capitalist country now, Illya,' and Napoleon – well, something that Illya can't catch flashes across his face before he masks it with a lewd grin. 

He strides over and sits himself in Illya's lap, leaning in close. 'I'll make it worth your while if you wear one.'

Illya blushes and Gaby groans. She stands and moves to the office door. 'I'll just leave you two alone.'

Napoleon waggles his eyebrows at her – Gaby chuckles as she walks out – then turns his attention back to Illya. 'So, how about it?'

'Is foolish, like I said.' 

Hurt flickers over Napoleon's face, twisting something inside Illya's chest, until he puts on an exaggerated pout and huffs. 'Fine.'

Illya regards Napoleon, resting a hand on the other man's hip. 'You really love Halloween, Cowboy?'

Napoleon nods. 'It's always been my favourite holiday. Trick-or-treating in costumes, bobbing for apples, staying up late for my mother's parties.' Napoleon trails off, a small smile on his face. 'It's fun.'

There is something appealing in Napoleon's happy recollection of his boyhood memories that makes Illya rethink his position. 'And if I wear costume...it would make you happy?'

'Well, I wouldn't want you to condescend to any _silly capitalist nonsense_.'

Illya rolls his eyes and squeezes Napoleon's hip. 'Would it make you happy?'

Napoleon shrugs and adjusts Illya's tie with one hand. 'I guess so.' 

Illya sees right through Napoleon's nonchalance. 'Then I will wear costume.' He sighs. 

Napoleon's eyes light up. 'Really?'

Illya nods and hopes he doesn't regret it. But when Napoleon leans in and kisses him, hand warm against Illya's face, he completely forgets his reservations.

*

'Can't I even get a hint?' Napoleon pleads, ducking a fist and kicking his opponent's legs out from under him.

Illya's lips twitch. 'You'll just have to wait and see, Napoleon.' He jams his elbow into the throat of a black-clad man.

Napoleon pouts, then turns to punch another assailant in the nose.

'And you won't tell what your costume is,' Illya counters and grabs Napoleon's wrist, pulling the other man through the doorway they've been heading for.

Napoleon throws a smoke bomb and shuts the door, leaning his weight against it. 'Not the point.'

Illya smirks and goes to defuse the bomb hidden there, Napoleon keeping watch.

Napoleon is tempted to tell Illya what he's wearing, just to get the other man to spill, but he wants to surprise his partner. He'll just have to wait and see, as Illya said. The anticipation is, Napoleon has to admit, exciting.

*

Napoleon is tying his kerchief in place around his neck when he hears Illya's distinctive knock. He checks himself over in the mirror, winking at his reflection, and moseys to his door.

Napoleon leans against the jamb as he swings the door open, one leg crossed over the other. 'Howdy, partner,' he says in a lazy drawl, pushing his hat up with the barrel of his gun.

Illya looks him up and down, a small smile pulling at his lips. 'You are cowboy, Cowboy?'

Napoleon grins and nods. 'And you're...' He trails off, smile faltering when he looks at Illya properly, 'not wearing a costume.'

Illya frowns and looks down. 'Yes, I am.'

'But you're just wearing your normal clothes.' Napoleon crosses his arms and pouts.

'No. I have beret...' Illya pauses, pointing to his head where, sure indeed, rests a black beret, 'and bongos.' He produces a set of bongos from behind his back, wiggling them pointedly.

Napoleon stares. 'OK.'

Illya huffs. 'I am beatnik.'

A laugh escapes Napoleon, unbidden, but when he sees Illya's face fall, hurt in his eyes, he tries to mask it with a cough. 'Yes, you are.' 

'So, costume is OK?' Illya bites his lip, looking down at himself. Napoleon's heart skips.

At first, he had thought Illya was poking fun at the whole thing – making the minimal effort as a protest – but he seems only to have worn it to please his partner and Napoleon's heart leaps to think Illya would do this for him. 

So he smiles and says, 'It's brilliant, Peril.' Napoleon fists a hand in Illya's turtleneck and pulls him inside, closing the door and pushing the other man against it, kissing him fiercely. 'It's brilliant.'

*

Partygoers in masks and bright costumes chatter and laugh, merrily, drinking punch, dancing and eating. The room is festooned with cobwebs, black cats and jack-o-lanterns, transforming the Waverlys' home into a spooky venue for All Hallows' Eve. 

Illya stands in a corner, content to observe the merriment, with Napoleon, who had mingled for a while until he drifted back to Illya, close by his side. Gaby, dressed as Groucho Marx, comes over waggling her cigar and stuck-on eyebrows. Napoleon chuckles and Illya finds his mouth turning up in a small smile.

As the three of them talk, at ease with each other as only such friends can be, a woman in a cat costume approaches, wobbling a little. She envelopes Gaby in a big hug. 'Gaby! I nearly didn't recognise you. What a great costume.'

'Hi, Lee. Thank-you,' says Gaby. 'Do you know Napoleon and Illya?'

The cat-lady – Lee – turns her gaze to the men. 'A little. What a lucky girl Gaby is to have two such handsome escorts. A cowboy and a...' she trails off, assessing Illya, eyes lingering on his beret and the bongos he's still awkwardly holding. She snaps her fingers. 'Beatnik!''

Illya smiles. At least someone got it. 'Yes.'

'I'm a cat,' she says, stepping closer. Illya nods. 'Meow', she adds with a giggle and a wink, making a pawing gesture with her hand.

Illya tries for a laugh. He's not sure if Lee is flirting with him or just drunk. Maybe both.

'You're the handsomest beatnik I've ever met.'

'Uh, thank-you.' Definitely flirting. He looks to the others for help but only gets a raised eyebrow from Napoleon, and a smile from Gaby, hidden behind her glass of punch.

'I like the bongos,' she says, tapping one with a long sharp nail. 'Would you like to see my bongos, Mr Beatnik?'

Illya feels his face heat as she shimmies in his direction. Beside him Napoleon makes a choking sound and Gaby, eyes wide, finally steps in. 'How about we get some coffee, Lee?'

Lee pouts but lets herself be steered away, turning back to yell 'see you around, Mr Beatnik!' and wink at Illya.

Napoleon snorts. 'Well, she was lively.'

Illya rounds on his partner. 'You needn't be so amused.'

'Aww, don't be like that, Illya.' 

Napoleon places a hand on Illya's shoulder but Illya shrugs him off and folds his arms. 'She shimmied at me, Napoleon!'

'I noticed.' Napoleon says, with a smirk. 

Illya scowls. Was there a hint of interest in Napoleon's voice?

Napoleon nudges Illya's shoulder. 'Don't worry, I prefer your bongos, Mr Beatnik.'

Illya blushes, both at Napoleon's words and that his momentary jealousy was so obvious. 'Good.' He pauses, brow furrowed. 'I'm not sure what that means but good.'

Napoleon snorts, again. 'Now that that's settled, how would you feel about taking me home, right now?' Napoleon looks around, then slides his hand along Illya's hip, looking up at him with a heated gaze. 

Illya, having wanted nothing more than to be alone with Napoleon all night and glad to escape the party, says, 'I would like that very much, Cowboy.'

They stare at each other a few moments until Napoleon clears his throat and says, 'Come on, let's get our coats and say good night to Mr and Mrs Waverly.'

They make their way through the party to the guestroom, acting as a makeshift cloakroom for the night. They find it empty and Illya locks the door, using the opportunity to pull Napoleon to him, just as he has wanted to since they left Napoleon's apartment.

'What are you doing, Peril?'

'Kissing you,' says Illya, before he kisses Napoleon deeply.

'Anyone could walk in.' Napoleon loops his arms around Illya's neck, belying his concern.

'I locked the door.'

Napoleon grins and pulls Illya back down into another searing kiss, threading his fingers through Illya's hair. 'God, I've wanted to do this all night.' They stumble together and fall onto the bed, Napoleon's hat falling to the side, paying no heed to the pile of coats or the partygoers who could interrupt them at any moment.

Illya breaks away, kissing down to Napoleon's jaw, eliciting a moan from the man beneath him. 

'I'm sorry I didn't save you from the cat-lady,' says Napoleon, running his knuckles along Illya's cheek.

'It's OK. I forgive you.' Illya lifts Napoleon's kerchief and kisses his neck. 'I just hope she doesn't have too big a headache in the morning.'

Napoleon chuckles and kisses Illya again, hands sliding to his waist. Illya grinds down as Napoleon rolls his hips up and Illya gasps, arousal building. The Russian runs his tongue along the seam of Napoleon's lips and moans when the other man opens to him, their tongues meeting. They kiss for long moments, Illya bracing himself over Napoleon with his elbows and Napoleon clutching at Illya's shoulders. 

He pulls away, breathless, looking at Napoleon with dark eyes. His gaze drifts to the rumpled coats beneath his partner and he remembers where they are. Heat floods his face. 'Maybe we should go home?'

Napoleon reaches up to cup Illya's face. 'Yes. And I'll make good on my promise.'

Illya presses a kiss to Napoleon's palm. 'What promise?'

'I said I'd make it worth your while if you wore a costume.' Napoleon tweaks Illya's beret.

Illya stands, offering Napoleon a hand to help him up, pulling him close against him. 'Mm, yes. What did you have in mind?'

'Whatever you want.'

Illya leans in close, breath hot on Napoleon's neck. 'I just want to fuck you.'

Napoleon's breath hitches and he lets out a shaky laugh. 'Oh, is that all? Nothing else I can do for you, Mr Beatnik?'

'Hm.' Illya regards his partner, making a show of considering the questions. He picks up the cowboy hat and smooths Napoleon's mussed hair, before placing it back on his head. He adjusts it to a jaunty angle, and taps the brim. 'You can leave the hat on.'

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for being a tease, there ;D I had plans for a smutty followup but life has been kicking my arse, lately, so I'm not sure when I'll get to it, now.
> 
> I was really on a roll with my fic for a while but got out of the routine so this took me a lot longer to do than I'd hoped. Anyone waiting on an update for Dirty Dancing: Moscow Nights, I apologise! I've not been well at all, so have less time/energy for fic than usual. But I'm hoping to get back to it, soon.
> 
> Find me on tumblr if you like. I'm multi-fandom :) <http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/>


End file.
